Come What May
by RoastedWolf
Summary: MoulinRouge!AU Elsa is a tired prostitute desperate for another life, in another world. Paris is not a petty place for pretty girls. Anna is an aspiring writer, full of life and wonder. Their fates are irreversibly entwined when they meet at the brothel show house, the Moulin Rouge, the most famous whore house in Paris, France, and even Europe.
1. Chapter 1

The bed creaked.

It was something Elsa found particularly irritating; how it creaked and whined like a kicked dog, thudding against the wall loudly, rocking against the floorboards on spindly legs. So she stared blandly at the ceiling, examining the way the cracks in the paint made patterns. Some days the cracks looked like a fleeing rabbit, ears laid flat against its back as it sprang across the pealing vomit cream. Other days, like today, it looked like a bird in flight. Wings outstretched, the wind pushing up against its feathers. Gloriously free.

Her client grunted something in her ear, bringing her back down to earth. She moaned half-heartedly, shifting her flesh around in a pathetic imitation of someone engaged with the whole sordid affair, her pale blonde hair wispy around her forehead. The room stank of the stale reek of sweat and sex, and the stagnant heat of summer hung heavy around them. From the open window came the sounds of the busy street below: the clatter of hooves against cobble; the shouts of women and men from the market; the barking of the pack of dogs that hung around the butchers on the corner. Elsa wondered, vaguely, what was on at the theatre. She hoped it was something grand.

Her client finished with a swift thrust and a groan, slumping lifelessly over her limp body, crushing her ribs under his weight. A sickening wave of relief washed over her like nausea, forcing a sigh out of her, which puffed against the thin grey hair at the sides of her client's head. He was panting hard, his wine-stained breath wafting over her like a hot drape, filling her with the age-old feeling of disgust she couldn't quite shake from her bones.

He shifted back and clambered off the bed awkwardly. She watched, hiding her vague amusement as he stood, pulling his trousers up from his ankles and struggling to get the waist over his gut. He grunted, trying and failing to tuck in his shirt. One broad, sticky hand dug into his inner coat pocket, drawing a white handkerchief out with a flourish. He wiped his shining brow, cheeks flushed with the summer heat.

"Shall I expect you next Thursday, Monsieur?" She asked politely, sitting up and draping her silk robe over her pale body, drawing it close to herself to hide the marks from his… activities. _To hide my shame._ She prided herself on being able to speak like a lady.

"Indeed." He replied as curtly as he could while still struggling to catch his breath. _He has never been much of a talker, _she thought, _which is unusual for a politician._

He left soon after that, closing the door to her private room softly. She allowed her countenance to drop, glad that he had been her last client of the day. She glanced up at the ticking clock, watching the pendulum rock back and forth, back and forth. The rhythm was familiar. It was six o'clock – she could hear the cathedral bells chiming in the hour.

She got to her feet, tying her robe about her securely before grabbing her half empty wineglass, heading to the balcony and leaning out, surveying the streets below. She can feel his essence wet her inner thighs, but she does nothing about it, save wipe it using a handkerchief. It doesn't matter to her. It isn't as though anything would take root.

Waiting. She was always waiting.

She took a sip of wine, examining the winding streets below. She had vague, cold memories of life there: the grime and the filth and the agony of hunger gnawing at her belly like a savage beast. Better yet, the sting of the icy cold cobbles in winter against her bare feet. It made her spine shudder at the thought. She learnt then how the cold couldn't bother her. Paris was not a petty place for pretty girls without homes. It was raw. It was hard. It was hell.

And then she'd sold her virginity for too low a price to some scumbag in an alley; savouring the stale bread she'd been able to scrabble together with the couple francs she'd earned. Eating it crumb by crumb until it'd been gone. But she'd been young enough, so she'd sold her virginity three or four times, earning even more money, allowing her for once to beat off the cold with a ragged blanket.

When nothing came of it, she'd continued, lingering in alleyways and on street corners for willing men to pay her way.

A knock on the door drew her out of her thoughts. She turned, fixing a knowing smirk on her face as Hans, her… benefactor, entered the room. He was grinning, red sideburns bright and tidy as he closed the door behind him.

"My Queen! You did it again." He bowed low before her, a mockery of the truth. He owned her. She was _his _property. There was a twinkle of it in his knowing green eyes as he straightened. She was always reminded of a shrew, or a weasel, when she looked at him.

"I trust he enjoyed himself?" She slinked towards him, wineglass balanced in one hand, playing along.

"Immensely." He chirped and he trotted to the leftover wine and glass, pouring it out. "Your share is tucked safely in my vest." He patted his chest comfortably, sighing before taking a gulp of wine. She watched with absentminded distaste as some dribbled out of the corner of his mouth.

He wiped it away quickly, avoiding her gaze.

Her hands itched at the thought of the money. She wanted it. _Needed_ it. She had her own sins to pay for.

She'd long ago forgotten to be ashamed.

Half an hour later she was on her knees, trying to remember when the world became so despairingly empty. Hans' fingers were wrapped tightly in her hair, tugging her closer, the grip almost painful against her skull. Their meetings often ended this way – he never touched her anywhere except her head, and where his manhood invaded her mouth, pushing down into her throat with his every thrust. She had been trained not to gag.

She felt the iron-hard twitch of his clothed stomach touch her forehead, and he grunted something. She failed to comprehend it over the sound of her own withering disgust.

She wasn't sure if it was aimed at herself or him.

He finished with a sharp intake of breath. She swallowed, licking her lips and looking up into his flushed face through lidded eyes. The sultry look was due more to the awkward angle than anything else. He stared back, panting slightly, before his gloved hand traced the edges of her face, green eyes inscrutable.

Hans buttoned up his trousers swiftly and left, placing the money he owed her from her previous client on the spindly table beside the door.

Elsa got to her feet, glancing at the clock, humming to herself as she stretched out the ache in her legs and lower back. It was twenty to seven. The sun still hung bright in the sky, shedding the summer evening light over the cooling city. The windows were still open, allowing the breeze to cool the sweat that lined her brow. Like fingers, the air brushed through the gaps in her robe; she could feel it against her lower back.

She sighed softly before plucking up her glass of wine, inhaling the dark liquid, enjoying the burning of it as it slid down her throat, dispelling the thickly bitter, salty taste of Hans' release, which was lingering on the back of her tongue. She felt her nose wrinkle.

She took another gulp.

Her hand shook slightly as she reached into a pocket of her robe, drawing out a small silver cigarette box. Fingers fumbled with the catch before it sprang open, revealing her sins. Ten neatly rolled cigarettes stared back at her. They were her lifeline, her saviour. Her greatest enemy.

She plucked one out, placing it between her rouged lips before lighting a rough match from the table beside her.

The first drag was heaven. She could feel it seeping into her bones, swirling inside her and driving all the evil out of her.

She released it like a prayer, watching the smoke spiral out in a misshapen cloud. It hovered over her until she took the second drag, huffing the smoke out of her nose like one of those dragons in the fairy tales. She'd only heard one or two, back in the orphanage before she'd run away. They'd always filled her with such wonder. But she still didn't know if she wanted to be the dragon, or the princess.

There was something about being rescued by a dashing knight that made her hopeful.

But dreams died hard.

The bitter taste of the cigarette was preferable to anything she'd tasted that day, including the wine. It deadened the world around her, making her forget the ache of exhaustion in her bones, and forget the hard knowledge of the future. She'd live every day like this. Every day and every night, surrendering her body to men and women who could pay enough. She hardly thought it was living at all.

Elsa sat herself down on the bed, flicking the ash into an ashtray before lying back, staring up at the ceiling, taking another inhale of that godly cigarette.

She'd tried once, long ago, to end it all. She'd tossed herself over the edge of the Pont du Carrousel. Only, half way down she'd realised with stark terror that she wanted to live. The instinct to survive was strong, sinking its claws into her until she hit the water with an explosion of white, and then darkness.

Somehow, she reached the river's bank and lay exhausted, panting with the agony of it, sobbing into her muddy hand. The rags of her trade had hung about her like an exerted lover, dragging her into the muck and filth of the earth.

She'd realised with a sort of savage pleasure that that's where she'd belonged.

So she'd picked herself up and continued on her way, until Hans had met her in a dark and seedy bar.

From then on she'd been a whore at the famous Moulin Rouge, the greatest brothel and show house in all of France. Or even Europe, or so Hans had said excitedly to her one night as they'd lain on her soiled sheets, the money of the day spread between them.

Elsa finished her cigarette and put out its end in the ashtray, humming softly to herself. She finished off her wine in sedate silence, staring out into the sunset, considering the birds that flew freely above her.

One day. _One day_ she would fly away.

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><p><strong>AN: Hey you guys, so you might have seen this floating around (idk heh) but anyway... I decided to perhaps leave this as a one shot, maybe continue it later. Basically... I'm continuing this project on my own (unless someone would like to volunteer to portray Anna's thoughts and feelings, and her point of view with me? Writing project buddies, anyone? heh PM me if you're interested) and will continue it depending on how I'm feeling and what's going on. <strong>

**In other news, I got into Uni, so life's pretty busy atm, hence why Zero Gravity hasn't updated in a while... but I'm working on it, don't worry.**

**Lots of love my little roasts,**

**Love, Wolfie**


	2. The Summer of Sin

**This chapter was written by the lovely Captain-Snow-Bug, who will be co-authoring this story with me, and is taking the voice of Anna in this long, dark story. Thanks to all who wanted to write with me, but I had to choose the Captain. **

**Have fun.**

* * *

><p>London air was sullen. It reeked of stench and became a wall only further inhibiting the world. London was smoke. It was dark and dirty. The only promises it held were those that involved coughing lungs and rotting teeth.<p>

Paris was everything London was not. Every suffocated dream from London had been rekindled as the train screeched to a halt at Gare du Nord. The air whispered of truth, beauty, freedom, and above all love. Paris was blue skies to London's rainy days. Anna had never felt so alive as the cobbled stones passed beneath her feet.

The bridges of the Seine were grand unlike the meager ones in London. Anna happily listened to the hustle of the streets. The children weaving through the shoppers chasing after butterflies and snatching flowers from window boxes so white they outshone even the sun.

Anna felt her cheeks burn from the smile that stretched across her face. She climbed the hill to Montmartre feeling light as the summer breeze that urged her on. The harsh and disapproving words of her father faded with each step. The world was hers to explore and the brilliant sheen of the Sacre-Coeur called to her.

Anna flew past the flower shops, the famous french bakers, and even the chocolatiers. The pull of Paris breathing new life into her. Energetic feet following an invisible trail toward some unknown goal. The second-hand typewriter her only worldly possession, became both her only hinderance and her motivation to head toward the top of that hill. To see what Paris truly had to offer. The mysteries she would uncover. The stories she would ink of love and loyalty.

No more would Anna Lancaster be a predecessor to her stuffy ancestry. Here she was free. She would write her own destiny, her own story.

There were only two problems with that notion. The first of which was she had never been in love. She had read enough stories and seen enough Shakespeare to know what it did to people. But Anna had never felt such passion. The desire Juliet had possessed to plunge a dagger to her heart. The agony McBeth felt at losing his world. It was foreign. It was as foreign as the notion of seeing the Eiffel tower from her window and not the steep angles of Parliament.

The second and far more immediate problem, was she never actually made it to the Sacre-Coeur. For standing between her and stone of diamond was the most beautiful windmill to ever grace their blessed world. It embodied everything that Paris was and London was not.

The white blades were stark against a ruby body that stood proudly before the blue backdrop of the sky. As if even the clouds themselves were humbled by this structure and left the horizon. For the first time upon arriving in Paris, Anna stopped breathing. She stopped moving. She stared at this structure watching over the city like a lighthouse.

This was her calling.

Anna hugged the typewriter tight to her chest. This magnificent structure was her first adventure. This, Moulin Rouge, was her first destiny. If only she knew what it was.

It felt almost sinful to taint the clear air with her cigarette. But the small stick of nicotine was one of the few things that could slow Anna down long enough to actually think. Watching the grey cloud idly slip away into the dying Paris sun dulled her heart rate. It was almost therapeutic.

Anna leaned her head back against the cool wood of the window frame. Her eyes slipped closed as the street prepared for night fall. The old building she now called home was anything but one if her father had a say. The floors creaked and cracked with misuse and the walls smelled faintly of some pungent and unidentifiable concoction. Her typewriter sat proudly on the small table near her. Currently, it held the title of the only furniture to grace the room other than her bed. A lazy smile slid onto Anna's face as she watched it. Anywhere that lovely hunk of metal resided, was where she called home. Her father be damned.

And then as if God himself had something to say about it, the room above her shook so violently the window above Anna slid down to whack her head.

"Hey!"

She struggled to climb back into her home while protecting her smarting bruise.

Only God had nothing to say. Instead a small head popped, quite literally, out the window and a pair of large brown eyes bore into hers. At a loss for words, Anna simply blinked back at the individual above her, not entirely comprehending how casual and curious he looked despite hanging halfway out of a window. The brown eyes blinked back, before crinkling up in a large smile.

"Hi! I'm Olaf and I like warm hugs."

The small man waved his arms and Anna immediately questioned her choice in housing.

"Uh, yes. Hi. Um I'm Anna. It's a pleasure to meet you." She stuttered out. Years of schooling wasted apparently. Take that Father.

"Do you like hugs as well?" His voice rising to an incredibly high octave. "Oh oh. You're the new neighbor." His smile spread impossibly wider.

With a rumble another head poked it's way through the window. "Oh a girl! We could use a girl."

"We could always use a girl." A rough voice shouted from further within the flat.

"Yes, yes. Sven, she must join us." Olaf agreed with rapid head motions.

As if it were the most normal thing since sliced bread Sven, Anna supposed, leaned further out the window and offered a hand to her.

Anna attempted to control the disbelief across her face. These were the parisian artists that she strived to be among? These were the children of the revolution? And they planned to just lift her up to their flat through the window.

But just beyond that hand extended toward her was the Moulin Rouge. It's large windmill unmoving as if waiting for her decision. The street had quieted, even. As if Montmartre itself remained poised for this deciding moment.

Anna was not one to disappoint. Especially this new and magical city. With a deep breath she extended her hand up and clasped tightly to Sven.

The sturdy window ledge fell way as Anna was dragged up and out of her flat. Trusty typewriter left to guard the home. Anna spared it one last glance, hoping when she returned prose would fall from those keys.

"The ground looks an awful lot farther away now." Anna commented. She couldn't help but swing her leather traveling boots against the wall for purchase.

Her neighbors only laughed before hauling her up with remarkable strength.

"Welcome to our humble abode." Olaf shouted as Anna grasped for the windowsill like a drowning child. "You met Sven. And that's Kristoff."

Grunting Anna heaved herself over the ledge and into a haphazard pile on the floor. Well, what Anna assumed was a floor. Thick rugs of mismatched cloth coated the wooden boards as iron vines hung from the ceiling. Somewhere between the two, three pairs of eyes gazed unblinking back at her.

"Don't mind the decorations dear," Olaf tittered. "It's all from our last brain session."

"Brain… session?" Brainstorming? For what, an alien invasion in the rain forest?

"Yes, a brain session." The blond man, Christo-something, stepped forward, tripping over the long scarf wrapped around his head. "We are writing a play. Something very modern. This." He said, stroking a vine. "is one of our props."

"I see." Anna replied, clearly not understanding in the slightest.

"As you can see we have a shortage of women, and we could use someone to read the part of the monkey wrangler." Olaf explained. As if that cleared everything up.

It didn't though. Worry was beginning to set in. Maybe her father had been correct. Maybe this was not a place for her. This place of chaos and confusion that seemed to hold no rules or boundaries.

"Ok," Anna started to feel behind her for the window ledge. "so I don't know if I can do this."

This was a mistake. Maybe all of this was just another mistake to add to the ever growing list that was Anna's life.

The three sets of eyes blinked at her in confusion.

"And why not?" Christian, Christmas, whatever huffed.

"Was that not a typewriter in your room?". Sven asked. "Are you not a writer?"

"I, I'm not a writer." Anna struggled pulling herself to her feet. "I don't know what I am."

"Do you want to find out?" Olaf asked gently.

Anna paused. It _was_ the reason she came to Paris. She was in search of not only adventure, prose and love, but mostly in herself. But how could she find it here? Here in this village where not even the laws of physics seemed to apply. Unless Sven had some explaining to do about his strength.

The sun was beginning to sink low behind the Moulin Rouge. Casting shadows of self-doubt on the world before her. As a small child nicked an apple from a stand, Anna realised she hadn't need a copper since she had been north of the Arc de Triomphe. London had rules, regulations, even trained marksmen to enforce the law.

This was anarchy.

This was madness. This place where even prostitution was legal. How could anyone find themselves in a place like this?

"Stop thinking. Have a drink."

A small shot glass of an absolutely vile looking green liquid was offered toward her. Out of reflex, Anna closed her fingers around it. She marveled at how the liquid illuminated her skin, giving it a sickish but lively glow. "What is… this?"

"Absinthe." Olaf smiled as if he had just revealed his favourite season.

Anna resisted the urge to drop the glass. Absinthe, the sin of the underworld. That's what everyone, _everyone_, in London had always said.

But Anna was not in London. She was in Montmartre. And she was not going to back down from her new adventure over some modern play she did not understand or a child pilfering food.

Taking a shaky breath, Anna cast one last glance of longing at the windmill for support. She tipped the glass to her lips before she could change her mind.

London did not lie. Absinthe _was_ sin. The aftertaste burned her throat like lava all the way through her chest before warming her belly.

Her neighbors cheered before each taking their own swallow. As if this completed some sort of initiation ritual, they pulled her away from the window. The Moulin Rouge sank back into the horizon as Anna was transported to a mystical forest of fairies and living rocks. She felt the prose within her mind fade away as she slipped into understanding with her new friends.

The turmoil of Paris faded to freedom of expression. Olaf pranced about the room with a piece of the floor's cloth as his cape. Sven disregarded the pile of Beethoven, Chopin and even Shubert for his own cacophony at the clavier. It didn't matter that Kristoff held his hands to his ears to block out the deafening sound. These Bohemians only cared that they were uninhibited.

It was something Anna had never witnessed. Life had always been proper; left foot first, how to pour tea. Manners. So many manners. But not here. Absinthe didn't know the word. Anna felt herself growing light and giddy as she tapped a spoon to the iron vines like a wind chime.

The drink ignited a fire she didn't know she could possess from within herself. It burned away the self-doubt, and the fears built up over years of following rules. Finally, Anna felt she was as free and pure as the Paris air around her. London, the world, even her father flittered away like the smoke of her cigarette long since forgotten on her window. As if even that beautiful windmill was shrinking away into a tiny… you know what?

_Fuck_ metaphors.

She felt alive.


End file.
